Those Things Without Words
by Monster Tesk
Summary: No one noticed it, of course they didn't. Why would they? It was just a coat on a rack. There wasn't much to notice in Monroe's life anyway, now that he was gone from it.
1. A Cheesy Motif and Rock Blues

A short thing I thought of in the shower. This is just fanfiction, no profit gained, I have no life etc etc etc. Posting this before work in a hurry. As always, if you find a typo or an error and you tell me about it then you get one free fic just for you, whatever you request.

This is an AU, obviously. I think it's pretty easy to figure out what happened before the start of this but I have a habit of over-estimating my clearness.

Warnings: Sort of! Character death, uh….. sort of confusing?

Nick/Monroe- if that's not your ship get off this boat.

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><p>No one noticed it; not that he had expected anyone to. It just hung there near the door, next to the first clock Monroe had ever made. Surrounded by the careful ticks of clocks, Monroe worked silently; lived silently. The only noise aside from the ticks and clicks of clocks was the slow movements of music from his cello.<p>

Every few weeks the monk's silence was broken. Monroe would have an evening where no clocks needed repair, no orders needed making, and no activity was appetizing enough to keep his attention. Monroe would have a few beers and, momentarily, be driven to madness by the silence of his home. His stereo the only solution he could bear, Monroe would set the volume a little higher than he liked and pick it up off the rack.

Crouched on his couch, he'd press the soft black material to his cheek and close his eyes. The rough warbles of loose guitars and the bitter, low tones of lyrics would wash over him and he'd inhale sharply, pretending.

Pretending that the jacket still smelled like him, pretending he had just left it here accidentally on a regular day, pretending that Monroe would be able to hand it to him the next day with a snarky comment about the state of his mind.

Pretending that life was like the movies; like Van Helsing or any of the numerous other werewolf movies Nick had had a perverse amusement in making Monroe watch. Pretending that it was as easy as it was in the movies; that a shot or a potion or a few simple words or the kiss of one's true love could fix it and that it was that easy, that simple to stop someone from becoming a monster. The music stuttered, the guitar picking up and crooning out a bitter lusty solo, jerking angrily, loose and rough. The string instrument scratching out those things without words that Monroe pretended for; lived for.

Two and a half thousand miles away a black haired man hesitated to a stop in front of a pawn shop and pressed three fingers against the glass between the bars. The display showed off an antique clock, the wolf motif was a little cheesy, sure, but it still struck the movement in his chest.

Maybe one day, he told himself. Maybe once this was all over he could go back.

He shook his head, a grim smile on his face, and say what? Sorry, I lied; I'm not dead.

There is no coming back from this, no return, no forgiveness. He didn't deserve it and Monroe didn't deserve to suffer anymore.


	2. Monroe Hates All The Things

So that one shot I made that was just going to be a one shot and nothing more because I always take on long stories and get lazy halfway through and never finish them. Well… I'm going to do something awful and see if I can make it in to a few short chapters. Nothing very long. They probably won't break 500 words a chapter but just to get myself finishing things that are longer than a few thousand words I thought I'd try this. Plus, so far as I can see, no one else has done something quite like this with Grimm yet and I see what isn't and… blah blah bible reference bible reference insinuate that I am god.*

*Sometimes I am insulting.**

** I'm always insulting.

Anyway, as usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that.

Also I'd like to thank the two people who reviewed the first chapter.

TV Centric Universe: Thank you so much. I always appreciate compliments. Just keep inflating my ego, my roommate will love it. It's not like he hates me enough as is. I really appreciate that you felt that it was like "no other Grimm story so far." This fandom has a certain feel and a certain outlook on life/the grimmverse and while it's nice to see so many happy go lucky people I feel like there are too many stories that only touch at unhappiness; it's like they're teasing angst without actually angsting and a lot of my friends are in the Supernatural fandom (I am as well, really) and after so many years one simply builds up a tolerance to angst in the SPN.

I feel like I should take this moment to alert you people that any message/ review directed at me I respond to as long as it isn't short or unimaginative. Except when I'm bored or don't get many reviews.

To the reviewer who simply has YoY as an identifier: It's good that a part of you wanted to mourn; a part of you was supposed to. This story is not going to be happy and it is not going to be daisies and forget-me-nots. I'm leaving it and creating more of it that is purposefully ambiguous. If you have any questions or need more explanation or want to yell at me or what-have-you you may e-mail me at or send me a PM or write a review or something. It's up to you but I do respond to every message I get (go compulsive behaviors!)

Now that I've rambled off everyone's ear and scared of prospective readers, let's get down to business (to defeat the huns).

Chapter Two: An Offscreen Pursuit and Monroe Hates All The Things

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><p><em>There's a simple sort of corruption in the perfection of a moment, as if the sheer fact that it is perfect makes those who witness it sullied.<em>

Like that moment right after you wake up when reality is still the lethargic tintinnabulation of a dream; wherein for a moment, Nick thinks he's fallen asleep on Monroe's couch again. That smell of sandalwood and lavender ululating from the thick, soft knit of one of Monroe's absolutely (comfortable) hideous throws.

Pungent motel air blasts his face, utterly rending Nick's pleasant delusion to chunks. He sighed and rolled out of bed.

Eight hours later Nick rested against the door of a hotel room fifteen miles outside of St. Louis proper, exhausted but thrilled. The blutbad he was looking for was nearby and probably thought she had evaded him. Soon he could end all of this and live in peace. Or as peacefully as a grimm could live.

Two thousand miles away Monroe gives one final look to the leather ghost of his house before closing the door. Maybe getting far, far away for a couple days really will do Monroe some good.

Lying to himself had been easier back when he had disemboweled people for fun and profit.

Nearly eight hours later Monroe disembarked from the cramped plane and attempted to smile. St. Louis in the summer, he thought as he walked down the gateway, vaguely he remembered it being hot and sunny. Lightning flashed so brightly that for a little while the whole world was purple. Excellent.

Sitting behind a table cluttered with clocks, Monroe glared( or attempted to) at the people drifting past him. It was days like these that reaffirmed why Monroe hated all the things. The St. Louis Archon (a title he found highly misdirecting since it's in fucking Illinois in the middle of fuck and all) stank. Literally stank. It was in a hotel for fuck's sake, didn't these people know how to work a shower?

Monroe sniffed disdainfully as the coordinator of something or other walked past wearing little more than a fishnet shirt and carrying a can of alcoholic cool whip. He could have sworn he'd seen her licking it off random women earlier.

He was fairly sure (and by "fairly" he mean he was fucking positive) that this convention was run by a "secret" organization that called themselves whores. The spelling was different but they all seemed to take a particular glee in saying that if it doesn't sound wrong then you're not saying it right.

The coordinator stopped in front of the booth neighboring Monroe's and eyed a set of easily concealable daggers the way most people eyed cupcakes. She was spattered with hickeys and literal fucking bite marks and Monroe couldn't for the life of him remember her name. He thought it started with a "T" but he would swear on all that was holy that she had introduced herself as "Dude" to someone earlier.

She caught him staring and opened up her mouth to say something. She was tackled and dragged away by a large breasted midget and a man in a bandana, leather pants, and a matching fishnet shirt.

Monroe regretted few things more than deciding to come here.

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><p>I feel I should point out here that the two halves of this- from Nick's perspective and the one from Monroe's- are tandem timelines. Meaning that when Monroe shut his door Nick got out of bed. I hope that will clear up any confusion that this style I'm using creates. Any other questions, concerns, comments anyone has I will answer. I know that tandem storylines are confusing and I'm trying my best to make it easier to understand but it's hard to. I'm not a brilliant author and this is a new method for me. It also doesn't help that I have and will continue to leave large aching holes of ambiguity.<p>

Cheers.


	3. Hope: A Common Skin Irritant

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Corse language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Also I'd like to thank the two people who reviewed the first chapter:

TV Centric Universe: Another review! How encouraging! What are you trying to do to me? Eventually they will meet. Heh. I will say though that one of my goals with this story is to crush all the joy and make small children and elderly ladies weep. I'm just that evil. Thanks for calling that last chapter awesome even though it wasn't. That one, like the first, was mostly there for my entertainment. I live in St. Louis and absolutely detest Archon so Monroe's love of it is basically the same as mine. Though, of course, I don't know of anyone who would have a great love of a place at which one has been offered a handle of whiskey for a glance at one's tits. Also a lot of that was a giant in-reference to things basically no one who would read this would know about. The whores, the lady whose name might be dude or might start with T, and the midget all happen to be pretty much based off of my friends. What can I say? I'm a narcissist.

ShoelessKayla: Aren't you sassy! You'll know more, that I promise. Whether you'll be satisfied with it or not I do not guarantee.

Chapter Three: Hope: A Common Skin Irritant and Other Grimm Matters

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><p><em>Three thousand shallow cuts and I claw at myself; this hope purls through me like acid on skin; leaving me wrecked with a charnel flesh on fire.<em>

It's Saturday when Monroe sees Nic. Usually when he see's him he knows better- not every dark haired man with a leather jacket is the grim of Portland who once was- but this time the sight is combined with the needle prickling scent of thing-that-can-kill-me.

Nick's eyes flick easily from person to person until Monroe stands. His eyes settle on him. The familiar duel of unease and welcome churns through him as he meets those colorless eyes. The sensation gets stronger and stronger until Monroe flinches sideways. His eyes instinctively fix on a man with mud colored hair and black eyes. The man smiles at him in a way that does more to display his canines than his good will.

A grimm? He's very young; doesn't look much past his mid-twenties.

Monroe tracks the man wearily through the crowded hall, his eyes flicking from the Nick-a-like and back. The two meet and begin to walk away together.

The grimm drapes his arm across the Nick-a-like's shoulder and leans into him.

Monroe feels three thousand shallow cuts like one spark of foolish hope that catche fire in his chest. He asks the woman in the booth next to him to watch his stuff and takes off in the direction Nick (it has to be him, it just does) and that grimm left in.

Numerous times Monroe thinks he smells them, though he gets confused often. Late into Saturday and mostly all he can smell is unwashed bodies and buckets of frustration and sex. With a rising gorge, Monroe returns to his booth and begins to clean up.

He probably just imagined it, anyway. He really hoped he hadn't though.

Of course it wasn't over. Nick should know better. It was never going to be over. Nick rubbed his tired eyes and scanned the crowd again for Warren. A movement stands out in the corner of his eye and he looks over to a booth covered in clocks. A part of his brain feels that uncomfortable tightness he gets around creatures as his eyes zero in on the man who had been obscured by the display of clocks and watches.

Monroe.

Nick stands, paralyzed and in denial. There is no way Monroe is in St. Louis. There is no reason for him to be. Monroe was a man of hard habits and strict life. It would be completely out of character for him to fly halfway across the country. To a convention, no less, where people rushed about in costumes. Nick's mind stutters at the recollection of the Little Red he passed to get to this hall. Why would he be here?

Monroe flinches to the side and looks at someone else. Warren. Nick feels a surge of relief. He smiles at Warren as he approaches and Warren gives him his best sly grin.

Nick has too much to do still to be distracted by thoughts of Monroe.

Warren clasps Nick's shoulders and steers him down the hallway. Nick relaxes into the touch. Something about being near and touching his own kind made him instinctually feel better. Nick wrapped his arm around Warren's waist and let himself relax a little. Soon they'd be up in Nick's hotel room planning what to do next.

If Warren's hand wandered down and hooked his thumb in Nick's waistband he wasn't going to deny the companionship. It was a lonely life being a grimm.


	4. Shroedinger's Love In An Elevator

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Also I'd like to thank the four(!) people who reviewed the last chapter:

DL Barnner: We have a winner! I do have a tendency to use words that are effectively dead but I do not warn for that! That's one free fic of your choice for you. Send me a request and I'll fill it out within a week. And capitalizing Grimm, now that I did not know. (The more you knowwww) so thanks a bunch. Though, the way I thought was that Grimm was a thing like bludbat.

As for a lonely…. Well, it's more of a thing that's hard to explain. The way I'm working is that there aren't many other Grimms in the world and they're hard to find. Being the only one would be lonely. No one else would know what you're going through personally. Finding another grimm (okay I tried capitalizing it, it just feels wrong to me, I don't know why) was extraordinarily good luck on Nick's part. Coming from a basically non-existent family would make Nick eager to find others like him- a sort of mock family if you will. It's a commonly repeated behavior with people from backgrounds similar to Nick who are in some way set out from the typical.

TV Centric Universe: Thanks again for calling it awesome. Ha. I still don't believe you. I really will make you cry, you know, if you still want them to be happy. I'm just going to sit in the corner and sort of grimace at "boyfriend"…. Uh…. Sure…. Boyfriend….. yeah…. That's what they are. Heh.

There's a bit of a saying I learned when I moved to St. Louis: If you don't like the weather, stick around.

Just because of the joke I made earlier about the weather that probably went over your head. I do these things.

These things that no one likes.

ShoelessKayla: Shh Shh Shhhhh, my darling. Don't question Warren… he's important. Don't worry some will be revealed. I will warn again that I am leaving a lot of this vague on purpose. I want that ambiguity to infuse a confusion both with the characters and with the readers 'cause, you know, if life were laid out like a book no one would be lost or confused about life at the end of the week. I know I spend ninety percent of my day confused about what people are doing. In life we rarely get the whole story so why should I give to you what no one has?

That was probably confusing. Whatever. I'm being distracted by woodsmen on the TV. What can I say? I have a type and it gets in the way of my typing. Heh.

YukiXP: Nice name, first of all. My ex-stepmother's new husband goes by that. His full name is something Jewish and graceful. Lucky bastard. Anywho. Interesting? Me? Well there, darling, you're trying to make me blush. The wife won't like that all that much. Ha. I'm glad you find my style and attitude intriguing- that's the most polite descriptors I've gotten about those two before. And good gagging golly, thank you. I do have a formidable vocabulary, particularly for someone of my education level and academic track record. (Humility is a word I have yet to learn.) Ululation and tintinnabulation are two of my favorite words; one I learned from reading Lord of the Flies and the other I extracted from an Edgar Allen Poe poem.

Re 'Hope': It is my own. I am first and foremost a poet (oh lawdy how pretentious I sound) and generally only write fiction when I particularly feel like it. "Those Things Without Words" is a poem I wrote at work when I was bored. I'm sort of quoting bits of it while planning out the sequel to it while writing this story. My favorite line is also the theme for this story: "The chasm of my chest a cliché / Made out of the universal poverty / In which our hearts may grow / But nothing lives within."

I will address part of it, at least.

ANYWAY.

On with the show. This one is coming in a little late because I had to turn in my research proposal Friday night. And then I spent the rest of the night watching Eddie Izzard and playing hangman. Productivity.

Chapter Three: Shroedinger's Love in an Elevator

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><p><em>An impure skid of (in)humanity i'the churning rift of time. Forever a moment livesdies….Eternally happening and immediately no more than a dream, which upon wakingmaking, becomes no more than an intangible muddle.<em>

Eyes closed, leaning against the wall inside the elevator, Nick felt wrecked in the worst way possible. So over sensitive from the rush and thrill that was the chase and capture and victory (though short it would be, he knew) that he could hear Warren not far from him bouncing on his feet. Eager, so very eager.

Nick opens his eyes a crack and grinned at Warren. Warren returns it.

A flurry of shoves and pulls and they're tangled together; Warren's ass resting on the handrail, his legs around Nick's hips holding them together. They buss with teeth and tongue, their lips touching only an incidental part of the exchange. Nails dig, hips shove, teeth scrape and hands tug clothes and hair out of position. This is needed; this is necessary.

Nick bites harder, drags welts down Warren's exposed lower back and presses violently against him. Warren is so responsive, so simple, and so easy. He bites back as hard as Nick and digs his nails into the back of Nick's neck and clutches at him with his thighs. His head collides with the wall when Nick digs his teeth into his clavicle and sucks. Warren leaves red swelling gouges on Nick's neck and it's almost enough; a spark of something for the deprivation inside of Nick.

If Saturday had created a sort of undead hope in him then Sunday both reanimated and destroyed whatever good feelings were left in Monroe.

He elbowed the call button until it lit up then sagged upright and watched the red numbers flick on top of the door. He had kept looking for Nick, more on edge than he had been in months; he had stressed himself out to the point of losing any semblance of control. Every shock of black hair, every leather jacket, ever little scuffle had sent Monroe into fugues of search and seize. Exhausted and despondent ( and several pocket watches and a few clocks lighter) Monroe was determined to spend the rest of the night and possibly the rest of the week (or month) drowning his sorrows in clocks until he forgot all about this weekend or built up for himself a solid line of denial.

_Ding_

It's one of those moments Monroe both wishes to remember in great detail for the rest of his life and forget entirely and never be reminded of it again.

Nick.

Most Definitely Alive and Not Little More Than Hamburger Meat Nick Burkhardt frotting (very aggressively, Monroe might add) with that young man Monroe had seen earlier.

Monroe stands there, exhausted arms full of clock, too shocked to do more than grunt in a confusing mix of arousal, joy, anger, grief, jealousy, and lack of understanding. The elevator door slides shut, Nick's head turning slowly. His eyes hazed over in lust widened, his red swollen lips stretch their shiny selves in surprise. Monroe feels the grief and unrequited heartbreak as if it is new and not months and months old. The doors sigh and clack quietly at meeting each other.

He walks quickly away, his exhaustion not forgotten but multiplied exponentially. He shoulders open the door to the stairwell. This late he is the only one there. The sounds of his boxes shuffle loudly throughout the flights of stairs when he sets them down. Standing back from them he takes a shaky shock-laden breath.

Monroe's knees collapse and he pushes himself into the landing's corner, dragging his knees up to his face. He digs his face into his knees and clenches his entirety as hard as he can.

He feels weak.

Unimportant.

Betrayed.

A small, well aimed part of him whispers that he deserves this. Did he really think a creature like him deserved something as good as that?

He doesn't cry.

His face is hot.

He doesn't cry.

His chest crumples.

He doesn't cry.

His stomach churns.

He doesn't cry.

His body shakes.

But he doesn't cry.

He doesn't deserve that either probably.


	5. Dreams and Other Nocturnal Emissions

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Also I'd like to thank the people who reviewed the last chapter:

DL Barnners: Personally I like the visual representation of that heart-stab. The way that first line is separated from the rest by those single word lines around it. As if it were a literary lance through Monroe's poor heart.

It's not wrong, if anything it's a part of human nature; the reason we're drawn to theater, fiction, stories, and gossip- that cathartic release as we imagine that pain, that grief, that joy. It's like a door-stop for the alligators under the trap door of our emotional heart.

Yeah, Nick's loneliness and bid for common ground is pretty, well, common. In a way it's like emerging communities: people move to an area to create a special place for people like them and soon after others follow to emerge themselves in the feel of not being the only one. Thus places and things like Little Italy, Chinatown, Pride Parades…

I must thank you heartily for getting my Shroedinger's joke. I do love a sound joke about a dead/alive cat. I look forward to finding out your request.

Tv Centric Universe: I like two lonely grimms (cross the road). I will continue- obviously. I took a break over the weekend to binge-read and chop off all of my pretty blond hair. As for puppy eyes of any variety… I'm not quite sure Monroe is capable of them. Nick on the other hand…..

ShoelessKayla: I believe my point was that life was unlike a book. I do hope you survive. It reflects poorly on me if my constituency dies before I've finished.

I'm afraid, my dears, that my complete and utter lack of a gun-kink will show this chapter. Grow up around the things and they turn into loud oily chores and the stupid reason you have to wear shoes indoors.

Chapter Five: Dreams and Other Nocturnal Emissions

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><p><em>My poor soul is one of many participating in a Malthusian emotional trap. The Starving Times isare the only Times I subscribe to.<em>

He was climbing a sandstone mountain. He could feel the scrape of rock against rock, the insinuation of dirt under his nails, and the overtly pervasive grit that clung to his palms, his cheeks, his feet, and the expanse of his sweating chest. His belly, coated in sand, twitched and forced him to jitter away from his current position. The sparse weeds that clung to the mountain simultaneously itched and tickled when he touched them.

The sky was purple and Monroe knew that it was too close to the beginning for comfort. He didn't have much time to start.

His muscle burns pleasurably from the long climb.

He lets out one short giggle of victory when his eyes pop up eye level with the top of the mountain. By himself he has plateaued; reached the limits of his lifeless living. He pulls himself up and rests his arms folded on the edge of the mountain, never even considering climbing on top of it and walking around. His naked body feels the space under him and behind him acutely.

In front of him Nick sits on his knees, legs spread as wide as they will go. Monroe can see the tendons and muscles strain in his thighs. Nick holds a waxy green leaf to his stomach lovingly. His black eyelashes smear a shadow across his cheeks.

"I can feel them kicking inside me, Monroe."

Nick's voice is breathy and soft and full of an awe that Monroe has no wish to name. He can feel his prick move against the sandstone. Monroe is holding on to the ledge with his fingers while his feet grip loyally at the rock below him.

The waxy green leaf burst and shreds to pieces. Nick cries out and gives gaspingly loud whimpers of ecstasy. Monroe lets go sharply of the mountain's ledge. As he drifts away from the mountain Monroe's eyes watch as a litter of small brown pups burst out of Nick's belly.

He begins to fall but he can still see.

The pups yelp and writhe about. Their little brown bodies clothe themselves in little black robes and their tiny white teeth gnaw the handles of daggers.

Monroe's body falls silently, quickly through the air.

He can still see Nick kneeling.

Now above a small brown haired man with black eyes. He smirks down at the man and snaps his hip forward. The man gasps and his head falls back, exposing a well-bitten neck and chest.

Monroe lands on a thick branch in a damp close forest. He can see Nick thrusting into the man, digging his strong fingers into his fleshy flank.

Monroe's feet tread easily across a mossy branch and he sits down casually astride a thick branch. He stares at the panther sitting next to him.

The man tenses and grabs at Nick and there's a small sexual tussle. At the end of which Nick has his back on the bed and the man rides him easily. Nick thrusts his hips up and arches his neck and back off the bed. Monroe can see the litter of bite marks across Nick's clavicle.

"Once the wolverine has finished the corpse the snake can return to providence," Monroe said amicably to the cat. It blinked, flicked an ear, and looked down on the spectacle before them.

Nick has grabbed hold of the man's neck, low down, and is using his sitting position to control the man's movement- basically making the man fuck himself on Nick.

Monroe looks at the crumple of flesh and muscle where Nick's stomach curves to accommodate his angle. His teeth ache so hard to bite into that soft flesh that his cock hardens.

Months later and Monroe is still waking from the dream. He grabs the corner of his blanket and wipes his face with it.

It's not enough that Nick is alive and ignoring Monroe, Monroe has to have strange dreams about him and his mystery lover.

He pushed himself against the headboard of his bed and stares around his dark room. If he didn't know better he would swear that that panther was sitting next to him in his bed staring at Monroe's window. He closes his eyes and rubs a hand across his face and over the back of his head. He can smell the musk of his own body permeating the room. His prick reminds him it exists and he folds over.

Thankful to the years of pilates that allow him the flexibility to rest his forehead on his knee without having to lift his legs. He breathes deeply and tries to think about the detergent he uses on his bedclothes.

He twitched once when he heard a noise that sounded too much like his back door opening. He twitched again when he smelt old blood. He was out of his bed and pulling on a handy pair of hiking boots when he head the soft sigh as someone sat down on his couch.

Things had gone swiftly and to shit since that weekend, Nick reflected as he sat at a crappy Formica table inside a rundown motel. With only a cursory nod to modestly Nick had tugged on a pair of jeans. He flipped open the lid to his kit and checked one more time to make sure his piece was unloaded and without a clip before unpacking the pieces of his cleaning kit he'd need. Part of him couldn't believe that it would come down to this; that all of this struggle and pain would be over thanks to a handy little clump of metal.

Warren stirred on the bed to the right of Nick.

It used to be that Nick loved more than anything a chance to stay in bed until late morning with a warm body beside him.

Now he couldn't stand the sight of a sleeping person.

Closing the kit and setting his gun safely back where it went after checking it one more time, Nick gave in to the non-verbal pleas from Warren and crawled on top of him on the bed. Warren's quick frame was displayed in good light with the way the sheet fell heavy on him. Nick licked at his clavicle and Warren hummed softly.

"Mmbaby, you smell good," Warren said softly into the air.

Nick began to lick lower, the pungent sting in his nostrils the only sense he could pick out.

It's funny how much a sleeping person looks like a dead body.

"hmmm oh"

Worn out and foggy beyond belief, Nick rolled over slowly using the drop off to the curb as a help to get himself standing again.

Over.

It was- he couldn't believe. There was no way it would be so easy.

He knew it wasn't really. There was still the factions, now headless but there. It would take time and patience- and more bullets- to fully silence this beast. But now, hopefully, he could have a little peace.

He leaned against a light post for a moment; most assuredly so dizzy he'd fall on his ass and never get up again.

Maybe it was wrong of him to do this. Yes, it was.

There had been so much that Nick had done the past couple years that were shaky moral-wise at best. He could claim temporary insanity. Or head injury.

He just couldn't resist now. Not when it would be so easy to do it.

That seemed to be his problem, though, always doing what was easy. Especially if it was "right." Nick was good at taking the easy safe route. The one where he could pretend that he was righteous.

Maybe just this once he could take the route that would expose him for how awful he really was. He would do it, too. Stand there and accept the hatred and anger if it meant that for a moment he would be there.

Tonight and maybe for a while yet there would be no angel on Nick's shoulder telling him what was fair for everybody else. He could be allowed to be selfish, considering. Nick sighed tiredly and rested his eyes shut. He could be selfish. Hell, after all this, he deserved it.


	6. Here Follows a Series of Explosions

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Also I'd like to thank the people who reviewed the last chapter:

Tv Centric Universe: Dreams are usually a little or a lot odd. I have a bit of a lot of a fascination with dreams. They reveal so much about yourself and yet people will happily tell them to others. You have no idea how many secrets people share with every description of their dreams they give. An observant person can learn more about you from some simple observation and a regaling of a dream than you would be comfortable with even your mother knowing.

I'm glad you like my make-believe person. Warren is a lovely contraption and a good tool to facilitate certain behaviors. Random unnecessary fact: I named him after one of my favorite artists. Warren Zevon. He may even be modeled a bit after bits of his discography. My first record was Warren Zevon's Bad Luck Streak In Dancing School.

Sorry about the lack of formatting in the last chapter. I was writing it before bed and I just couldn't be arsed.

I've also run out of quotes from my poem "Those Things Without Words" so now it'll just be random lines that I feel fitting from other things I've written.

Chapter title was borrowed from a Cate Marvin poem titled "World's Tallest Disaster."

And back to regular scheduling. I'll probably post before work on weekdays and then disappear for the weekend. I like to hide in my room on weekends. Just talk to The Wife and read. Fridays will be maybe days for posting since I don't have any plans in the mornings on those days.

Chapter 6: Here Follows A Series of Explosions.

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><p><em>All my masses of muscles beg to be Scratched. All possessing that Impossible to reach desire for nails to carve through. I wish to finger-comb my muscles; Use my aching hands to work Through the knots and sores in my strings of mobile meat. <em>

Nick stared into the black puddle in his mug and rubbed the bottom of his foot against the footrest on the stool he sat on. The coffee was, as always, better than anything he'd ever had ever. He licked up the last drops of it, syrupy from the sugar that had settled on the bottom and hoped that if he didn't look at Monroe that he could keep himself from- well, he didn't know what only that he knew he shouldn't do what the little voice would say when he did look at Monroe.

In that gray shirt that gaped in the front revealing the wiry hairs that grew on Monroe's chest and those loose flannel pajama pants that draped over his thighs and other parts so enticingly.

Nick didn't want to know what he'd do if he looked at Monroe's sleep messy hair and the ungroomed almost-beard that he always had.

Warren went through pains to remove all of his hair. Nick didn't even want to guess at why. Especially when the man let his hair grow so long. It made no sense to Nick.

Instead of looking at him, Nick reached blindly for the carafe of coffee.

Nick didn't want to answer all of the questions he knew Monroe had. He didn't want to taint Monroe with the things he had done.

Nick was really stupid sometimes.

He had just missed Monroe so much.

And now sitting in Monroe's kitchen with a mug of coffee that was probably from some place Nick had never heard of and cost more than he'd bother spending on anything wearing Monroe's spare sweats and drowning in one of Monroe's very few hoodies (plain gray, the pockets dropped next to the zip from what seemed like age) Nick just wanted to close his eyes and pretend that this was everyday.

A large part of Monroe was still lurching from the shock of what he'd discovered on his couch. Part of him was in a tempest of anger and hurt. Part of him was curious. Part of him wanted to drag Nick upstairs and tie him to his bed and never let him leave Monroe alone again.

A very small part of him wanted to act like Nick sitting in his kitchen was part of his routine. That some mornings it was normal for Nick to smell like Monroe's shampoo, Monroe's toothpaste, Monroe's deodorant, Monroe's laundry detergent, to be covered in bruises from the end of a case, to have a few good bruises that Monroe had put there. Monroe stared at Nick and in the back of his head the last two years were fantastically re-written to include Nick flirting with him with intent and not just friendliness, Nick staying over after a few beers and following Monroe up into his room, Nick watching hockey on the couch while Monroe finished repairing a clock in another room, Nick with teasing eyes pressing against him to reach behind him for something in the morning. A righteous part of Monroe reared its head and bellowed angry ugly words about betrayal, lies, and hurt.

Two years he had grieved for his friend. Two years he had been utterly alone and without anyone to lean on. Two years he'd been tempted to give up and go on a spree until someone stopped him. Two years he'd lived with nothing for a companion than Nick's old leather coat. Two years he'd stared at that damn thing with the specks of blood on it and felt utterly alone and a failure. Six months he'd lived with the knowledge he had been abandoned. With the knowledge that not only had he been replaced but that his replacement had gotten from Nick what Monroe had been too cowardly to want. Six months he'd simmered in rage and hurt and resisted the urge to hunt down Nick and punch him really hard low on his belly.

A smaller though powerful voice reminded Monroe that his nipples itched and Nick nibbling on them would be a great way to relieve it.

Monroe's mind fought between being hurtfully angry and desperately horny. It was giving him a bit of a headache.

"Why." Monroe was pretty sure he had meant that to be a question but it didn't really sound like one to him. Nick smiled mournfully and rubbed his thumb against the drop of coffee on his mug that had been sliding down the side.

"It's complicated, Monroe."

"Why?"

"It was safer this way."

"For who?"

"For me, for you, for Juliet; for everyone."

Monroe snorted.

"I know you don't believe me and I know you're angry at me just please, trust me."

Nick looked up at him and seemed to shrug with his face like Monroe was just supposed to do as he said. Monroe saw red everywhere. He set his cup down as gently as he could and breathed deeply.

"No." Nick blinked reflexively. It looked remarkably like a restrained full body flinch to Monroe.

"I don't trust you anymore, Nick. Not after- not after all of this."

Nick ran a hand through his hair and stood up stiffly. Monroe could see that he was still in a lot of pain. He wanted to know what had happened. What had left Nick so bruised and scraped. He looked shredded.

"I deserve that. I know I do. I just, I just…" Nick sighed and held his hand against his side like his ribs were bruised. Probably were.

"I just can't right now, Monroe." He looked up at Monroe like Monroe had his livelihood fisted and was threatening to run it through the in-sink-erator.

"Please." The mushy warm center of Monroe melted and buckled under Nick's large pain-filled eyes. Nick must have seen the moment Monroe gave in because a tension went out of his body and he seemed to sag a little more into Monroe's too-large hoodie.

"Thank you."

And he did look thankful. He looked so grateful for it that Monroe's blood roared with the loneliness and desperation he felt. He wanted to walk around the counter he had put between them and gently take Nick in his arms and lick his bruised and tired skin until the pain he radiated left.

Monroe huffed irritably and turned his back to Nick. Opening the fridge he prayed to whatever god would have him that when he opened up his mouth only his irritation showed through.

"I suppose now you want me to feed you." Nick laughed behind him and Monroe's intestines attempted to jump and squirm. He heard Nick sit carefully down on the stool behind him, suddenly sounding a little lighter and a little happier having been released from his duty of explaining this crap to Monroe.

"I have eggs, mushrooms, green onions, peppers…. I could make omelets."

"Yeah, yeah, that sounds good. Thanks"

And that small part of Monroe that wanted to pretend like this was normal, that Nick often stayed over and slept in Monroe's spare pajamas, that Nick sometimes smelled so thoroughly of Monroe's soaps that he might as well roll around on top of Monroe to finish collecting all the things that Monroe smelled of, that Nick had his own mug in Monroe's cabinets, that this was all just part of the regular broadcasting, that there were no questions, no doubts, no worries, no large gaping wounds of betrayal cheered in happiness while other parts of him revolted against rolling over and giving in.

Monroe had already been thoroughly fucked over; he might as well just roll with this next slap to his face and get something he wanted out of it.

So what if he tried his hardest to make Nick the best omelet Monroe had ever made. So what if he had busted out his most expensive special brand of coffee. So he was fucked beyond all repair. What else did Monroe have?

The ticks and clicks of clocks and an old stained jacket that didn't even fit him, that's what.


	7. Late Night Precipitation

Standard warnings and disclaimers apply.

Long quote today, my my. Anyway. There was a bunch of stuff I was going to talk about before hand, responses to comments and little facts and things like that but my internet is down while I'm writing this and I forgot to make a list of the things I wanted to say so if you prefer to look at the responses before the writing then they'll probably be at the bottom today if there at all.

On a related sort of maybe I don't know what the fuck- urgh. Well, I just thought you people should know that I do take suggestions if you want to have a hand in how the story goes along. I'm not saying I'll take your advice or that I won't wholesomely ignore you if I don't like it or think it too out of character for the constructs of Monroe and Nick that I'm using but it never hurts to try. Unless you're trying poison then I suppose it would hurt.

Chapter Seven: Late Night Precipitation.

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><p><em>At sunset we all look like shades. Burnt from a lifetime's exposure to Radioactive fire that looks deceptively far Removed… It is no wonder we mistook the atmosphere around us for the vaults of heaven and the soil below us for the crust of hell. Any fool would think the same at sunset.<em>

The house was empty. Or, well, felt empty. Thick rain stampeded down from the skies and stomped across Monroe's roof just to slip over the sides and obscure the windows. Monroe felt like he was bottled. Similar to the lager in his hands, really. Except that when the bottle was empty the lager would be no more. When Monroe was empty, well…. He's still here, isn't he?

He stood in his kitchen in the middle of the night drinking steadily and staring at his back door in the pathetic hope that his unrequited love hadn't left without a goodbye or isn't currently out there in this storm dying for real.

Monroe resisted the urge to growl at nothing. Nothing being himself.

He finished off his current beer and walked over to the stereo.

A voice cried out; a hybrid wail-growl. In the background a saxophone garbled in the despondent way things do when they're aware of their moral decay and possibly more than content with it.

He grabbed another beer and leaned his elbows against the counter, watching his thumbnail run along the curve of the bottle. A piano jangled the way keys do and the singer let out a particularly foreshadowing cynical growl.

A flash of lightning: the backdoor opened. Thunder: the backdoor closed. Monroe took another drink before turning around.

Nick was sopping wet and grinning.

For a moment Monroe had a fantasy run through his head where he went over and licked Nick's exposed skin clean of rain drops before running his hands through his hair and licking up the drops he freed there. His mind fabricated him licking down the back of Nick's neck and along his spine, dropping to his knees and grazing his teeth and tongue across the small of Nick's back while unbuckling his soaking jeans. He could fuck him against the door, the rainy backdrop framing Nick appropriately.

Monroe made a noise that hopefully sounded the right kind of frustrated and pointed at Nick.

"You stay. I don't want you dripping all over my floor like that."

Then he fled upstairs.

Leaning his face into the soft cotton stack in his hall closet, he held in pitiful groan after angry shout.

He cursed himself for being so many different things. Mostly he cursed the sheer amount of relief he felt at seeing Nick back in his home. God, he was pathetic.

Maybe it was the storm outside, maybe it was the chase through the woods, maybe it was the rough fuck against a tree with Warren, maybe it was just Nick projecting a million things that weren't there but when he had opened that back door and saw Monroe bowed over the counter with his back curved in such a lovely way he had felt a smidgen like walking up behind him and pressing his cold body against the warmth of Monroe.

He wanted to kiss the back of Monroe's neck and ask him how his day had gone. He wanted to steal Monroe's beer and sit up on his counter still soggy and make Monroe complain and gripe at him.

Sometimes when Monroe did it was almost like things were normal between them. Nick wanted to flirt and tease and smother Monroe in everything Nick thought and felt but it just seemed like the wrong thing to do. After all of this and what he still had to do it just seemed poorly timed.

It would be stupid to alienate his closest friend just because he was in lust with him. It would be. It would…. It was just so hard to remember all of the reasons it was a bad idea when Monroe was bent over Nick with those large eyes intent on Nick's body and that heavy brow crinkled in worry. It was hard to remember all of the reasons why Monroe was a no-fly-zone when the man pressed his large hands against Nick's sides with that towel and rubbed the wetness and the cold out of him.

Nick's brain stopped working. Later maybe he'd blame himself. Right now he had to make something to blame himself for.

He stared at Monroe's face as he scrubbed Nick down. Nick stood there passively and waited. The scrubbing slowed. Things flickered across Monroe's face that Nick couldn't decipher in the dark. He looked up from where he was still craned next to Nick. He could see the moment Monroe realized he was standing too close. He could see the moment his eyes darkened with thoughts that Nick wanted to know.

He could see the surprise when Nick ran his lips against his.

He could feel Monroe's body shudder when he cupped his head to keep Monroe there so he could kiss those wide lips again.

He could feel Monroe's tense hands run tentatively down his chest.

He could feel Monroe's beard tickle his face as he wrapped his arms around his neck.

He grunted softly as Monroe backed them up until Nick was lightly pressing him into the counter.

He felt a thrill rush through his body when Monroe curved his hips against him.

He wasn't at all surprised when Monroe gasped away from him and shoved him hard enough to send him staggering to the other side of the kitchen.


	8. Tobacco and Other Scents Monroe Hates

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Also I'd like to thank the people who reviewed the chapter before last as apparently everyone follows the policy of if you don't have anything nice to say say nothing at all though to be fair that last chapter felt like crap to me too:

DL Barnners: One day you will catch an error that I didn't catch right after I post the story. It's really a pity that I suck this bad at English and can't be arsed to correct my own stories. It really tarnishes me as a writer.

And yeah, so often it's just not worth finding out why. Considering Monroe's heritage it makes sense that he'd have experience with fuck ups like Nick so I definitely just want him to be like what the fuck ever dude, get your shit together.

I'm good with writing more Grimm stories. Though I do like variety I'm having fun feeling out the Grimmverse and figuring out the plausibility of certain things. This story is basically an exercise in understanding. Me applying logistics to the cannon and exploding it from there with "what if"s and my experience. Though, from what I've read and thought about of the Grimmverse as of now I probably would have changed certain creature operations before writing this. I still like this idea so I'm going with it and since it already is an AU I don't see why I have to be entirely faithful to what my mind has decided is most likely. Which is why at least for this story there will be grimms instead of Grimms as this story operates under the assumption that grimms are more similar to the creatures they hunt than people. It just doesn't seem fair to me that nature would put a big target over a type of people and give them no real way of defending themselves. Sort of like in BtVS-verse. Magically hop-scotching powers with a genetic inheritance twist.

Tv Centric Universe: Clocks can betray him. They just might, in fact. You never know.

So I spent Thursday morning in vindictive despondency over the lack of reviews I got for the last chapter. Kidding. Mostly. Actually I was mildly hung over. I woke up with a pocket full of hot sauce and a scrap of paper that said "Test the elasticity of your anus." I worry about me sometimes. Only sometimes.

Also every once in a while my internet decides to not really work and as a result you get chapters like the last where I didn't have time to even give it my usual once over before posting it for fear that the internet would stop working and I'd be late for work.

Many thanks for the people with so little self-preservation that they've continued to read my awful story even though it just keeps going and going and won't end.

Chapter Eight: Tobacco and Other Scents That Monroe Hates

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><p><em>Stolen moments Like lighting your cherry Outside of a liquor store, Our deaths kissed then And again and again and again oh. A red coal we shared. Pressed between burnt Dried leaves and white paper We don't carry.<em>

Limping on to any other blutbad's territory would get Nick killed. Might still, considering. He gave an internal shrug and knocked on the door. Hopefully a month had been enough space because it had been hard enough convincing that last bus driver to let him on.

Nick just wanted to sit on Monroe's couch and breath in the smell of his house while the ER painkillers wore off and the prescription vicodin kicked in.

With tea on the table and that horrible throw (his favorite) covering him, Nick felt comfortable and safe and home and happy- considering-

"Who brings a- a- a- what's the word? For those javelins things they use on baby seals an' narwhals?"

"Harpoons."

"Yeah, those to a knife fight?"

"They call him Ishmael."

Nick snorted and pawed at the air level with his head.

"You have a great sense of humor, Monroe. It's one of the things I love about you."

"Thanks."

"That and your long, strong fingers."

There was a silent moment where the only noise was something pinging out of the pocket watch Monroe was working on. Nick giggled.

"Sometimes I masturbate and fantasize about the night I kissed you."

Monroe was silent. Nick rubbed his head against the pillow underneath it, reveling in the feel of cotton pillow and his hair. Nick opens his mouth, cottony curious about what will come out next.

"I pretend you didn't turn me down and finger myself and pretend you fucked me against the kitchen counter."  
>"Shut up"<p>

"With your fingers splitting me open-"

"Shut up."

"Your teeth digging into my shoulder."

"Shut up now."

Nick sat up quicker than he probably should have. His brain felt like a jar of cotton balls suddenly rotated.

"DID YOU KNOW grimms have a spot like blutbad? 'Cept theirs is for mating! You can- you can always tell a mated grimm from an unmated one. They build up this, uh, this mound of scar tissue under their collarbone over to the side."

Monroe is staring at Nick the same way Juliet used to stare at the TV when she watched those animal rescue shows. Nick struggled to coordinate his hands with the top of the Henley he wore.

"It's, uh, it's right he-here."

He pulled the shirt down and to the side to offer his pristine collarbone. Nick lost the courage to look at Monroe so he stared down at his chest and quietly wished.

"Mine is, mine is still un- uh- unmarked. I haven't been with anyone yet that I wanted to give it to."

His free hand spreads against the soft loose fabric of the pajama bottoms he wears. Monroe hasn't made a sound.

"Among grimms it's considered a Very Important Deal the first time you offer it. Like, uh, like giving away your virginity." His voice trails off at the end and Nick takes a deep breath and holds it in. Waits until he makes eye contact with Monroe before saying, "I- I've never considered giving it to anyone… else."

There's an explosion of movement from Monroe that Nick's fuzzy eyes can't follow. Briefly, Nick is pressed into the back of the couch and Monroe is growling at him from behind red eyes. He can feel the curl of Monroe's claws lightly digging in to the spot he pointed out. Nick shudders and keens a little, tilting his body back and open- wanting.

He feels the drag of those claws lightly over his chest and he can't help panting a little and pressing up into Monroe's warm hand.

Then he's sitting alone in Monroe's cozy living room, shivering all over with an aching groin, the sound of the front door slamming shut still echoing through him.

He moans pitifully and lightly slides his hands down the brief path that Monroe's had taken.

The only word Monroe's brain could think of for the last three hours was "Fuck" and really that's not helpful at all. Not with a blissed out on painkillers Nick on his couch wearing his pajamas, dopily murmuring nonsense things. Monroe's mind oscillated between peevishly annoyed and soft concern. He was getting a headache right in the back of his head. He was going to name it Nick.

Then Nick said things that were Most Definitely Not Nonsense. All thought was drowned temporarily out of his head by the sound of his own blood rushing straight south. Monroe bent the small hook he was using to align the gears in the pocket watch he was working on. His body started shaking and he really really needed Nick to shut up if they were both going to make it through the rest of the day alive.

Then there were words like "scar tissue" and "virginity" and Monroe's eyes were drawn like drowning men to life preservers to the expanse of clean, pale skin that Nick's hand revealed.

Shortly after and Monroe saw red, heard red, tasted red, smelled red, and felt the soft and eager to be marked skin of Nick's chest.

Part of his mind was screaming bad idea and running around in circles. Part of his mind had given control over to his raging prick. His whole fucking brain trembled in arousal at the sight of Nick offering himself to him.

Then he smelled tobacco and gun oil and the musky scent of another man. Warren.

Everything ground in a not fun way to a stop with Nick keening so prettily under his hand.

He had to get out of here before he did something he'd regret more than inviting Nick into his life.


	9. Sunshine and Morbidity

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Also I'd like to thank the people who reviewed the last chapter:

DL Barners: I like fucked over Nick as well. If only I'd had that much fun when I was hopped up on Vicoden. All I did was sleep and watch Law and Order SVU (and watch loads of episodes of Cbeebies but you won't get me to admit to it under oath). I paused and pictured it too. Except after I pictured it I wrote it down. It's atrocious what covers my papers at work. All of it is gay porn notes. Very profane. You know I've always wanted to fuck someone against a kitchen counter.

Be still my heart! You woo it quite the way it most loves woo. In other words your correcting of my spelling displays characteristics that I heartily endorse.

Never apologize unless I display direct and honest sorrow or hurt. You're not an ass. Or I don't think you are. O_o.

I have the same pet peeve. Obviously. It makes no sense to me that they would do that. I'm both a fan of and mildly irked at what the majority of the fandom does with red. Cause as nice as it is to read kinky chase sex scenes it also makes no sense that a creature who's natural impulse is to capture, store, and later eat young women in red hoods would push aside centuries of breeding to do something as benign as lick Nick (heh rhymes).

For some reason in my head!cannon Nick has always been a bit of a little slut. He seems the type to be a very flirty cock tease. The kind of cock tease that teases because he knows that when they actually do get around to it, it will be so much better for the teasing (and waiting).

Alackaday for you! For I have caught one of my own errors before I posted! Just today in fact. Well, I caught it after I posted but fixed it before the e-mail alert went out. That's pretty damn close.

Just for you tomorrow I'll go through the previous chapters and correct them. Since you actually went through the trouble of pointing out my errors for me.

ANYWAY I HAVE RAMBLED ON TOO LONG.

Chapter Nine: Sunshine and Morbidity

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><p><em>We don't carry a flame So much a cinder. This conflagrated prize We inhaled it between Greedy pressing lips.<em>

If Monroe concentrated hard enough he can make the last three years become a disturbingly clear bad joke of a dream. Sometimes he manages to convince himself it was a plot arch in a supremely under-staffed soap opera.

Then days like today would happen and Monroe would be forced to admit that no one could come up with this shit.

Monroe shut his kitchen door with the resigned admission that today (and the next week or more) were now going to be terrible. Nick the Terribly Delinquent and Sexually Frustrating sat on Monroe's kitchen stool.

Monroe sighed and set his groceries down on the counter farthest from Nick.

"All the times I've been here I never noticed it. 'Was too wrapped up in my own everything to pay attention."

In the cheery sunlight from outside, Nick's tone and demeanor seemed unnatural. His hands held his old leather jacket. Monroe watched with a strange detached feeling like his heart was splitting with every caress Nick's thumbs smoothed over the old leather. Monroe fisted air and resisted the urge to take the jacket back.

"All this time, Monroe, all this time and-" Nick looked up at Monroe in a swift glance before watching his thumbnail scratch at some dried blood on the jacket.

"Monroe, do you love me?"

Monroe gently pulled the jacket out of Nick's hands. His chest felt tight, like there wasn't any air in it and never had been.

"Yes," he said quietly, painfully while turning to gently, reverently hang the jacket back up on the hook.

"Then why," Nick said, his voice full of a tear duct emotion. Monroe softly ran his hands down the jacket. "Why do you keep pushing me away?"

He took in a large, steadying breath, letting his chest fill with the two years of torturous grief and loneliness Nick put him through, let his belly churn with the worry and bitterness that Nick's sporadic visits gave him and turned around to face the man Monroe held most dear.

"Because I deserve better than what you've put me through and because I'm worth more than you give me."

"Ouch."

Monroe stood proud and determined in his kitchen and stared down the man he cherished and let the gone-cold anger he felt simmer on his face. Nick looked hurt and pitiful and Monroe felt pings of guilt and an impulse to comfort. But he mattered, damnit, Nick wasn't the only person in this fucked up relationship.

"I keep hoping for- for- _something_ and every time you just disappoint me."

Monroe cut the air with his flat hand and let his arms drop to his sides, drooped but only out of a lack of how he could say his grievances. Nick winced and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"I deserve that. I-" Nick looked off to the side, staring at Monroe's kitchen counter for a long moment before looking back at Monroe. "Look, I'm sorry. I am, really. I wish things were different." Nick pursed his lips and stared down at his lap, unable to meet Monroe's gaze any longer. He looked so despondent. Monroe itched to forgive him, he did, but he stamped it down and buried it under sixteen feet of anger and senseless grief.

"You come into my home –uninvited- every few months smelling of tequila, guns, other men, and death, battered beyond recognition and, and fuck with me in every way you can think of and all you have is 'I wish things were different'?" Oh, Monroe was angry; truly, properly angry. He lunged at Nick and jabbed him in the chest with his finger. "No, ok? No. I refuse to accept this bullshit. If you wanted things to be different then you would fucking change them. In- instead you come limping into my life and fucking destroy me from the inside out for a few days and then disappear off to lord knows where and have the balls to act like a- an 'I'm sorry, Monroe, I deserve your anger' is going to change a damn thing."

Monroe was Mount Saint Helens. Monroe was the great Chicago fire. Monroe was Mount Vesuvius and Nick was Pompeii.

Monroe's vision was taken up with the cardinal color of sin transposed over Nick's face.

"No," Nick said with a calm that Monroe thought was counter-intuitive to survival. "I don't think it's going to change anything but it's the best I've got. It's all I've got." Nick pushed off his stool and Monroe backed up, allowing Nick enough room to dodge if Monroe lost control of his shaking anger.

"I never meant to hurt you, alright? I thought you would have been better off thinking I was dead. I just, I just couldn't stay away once you knew I was alive." Nick paced much like a caged animal would in the corner of Monroe's kitchen and ran shaky fingers through his hair. "I don't have anything else right now. All- all I have is here, right now. I- I can't give you anything else right now. All I have is me and I'm just, just," Nick trailed off and leaned back against the counter, covering his mouth with his hands and scrubbing.

He mumbled something quietly, as if he really didn't want Monroe to hear it. His efforts failed; Monroe heard it anyway.

"I'm just such a mess right now." Nick gripped the edge of the kitchen counter and twisted his hands uselessly against the edge.

And Monroe's heart broke, crumpled, and pulled itself together. He was still angry, he was still upset at Nick, he hadn't forgiven him but… he couldn't just _leave_ him without something- anything.

Monroe quietly walked across the kitchen to where Nick had slumped against the counter. He raised a tingling hand to where Nick's chin had sunk against his chest. With a tender index finger he raised Nick's face to look up into his eyes. He had no words; no harangues of inspiration or letters of fortitude so he did the only thing he'd ever wanted to do when he saw Nick hurting: he licked him; softly, lovingly lapped at Nick's sad lips.

Those lips parted in surprise and Monroe couldn't help swiping his tongue into that space, feeling the edges of Nick's teeth graze against his soft tongue for the first time.

A detached part of Monroe watched on in awe as he wrapped his arm around Nick's waist and pulled him to him. Nick made a needy little noise in the back of his throat and Monroe cupped the back of his head to gently guide him into such a position as that Monroe's tongue could reach that place where those delicious little noises came from. Nick's arms hesitantly rose, sliding skittishly along Monroe's upper arms before wrapping carefully around his neck.

Monroe squeezed Nick closer to him and edged Nick backwards until he could use the counter behind Nick to make sure the man didn't fall or run away. A part of Monroe was amused that he was afraid of Nick running away considering his track record of being the one to do that. The rest of him was busy mapping Nick's mouth.

Nick sucked on his tongue so eagerly and teased Monroe deeper into his mouth. He wasn't sure if they were licking or kissing our mouth fucking or what but every fiber of his pathetic being endorsed it heartily.

Nick's arms tensed around Monroe's shoulders and that was the only warning he got before Nick, by some strange and arcane grimm magic, _fucking shimmied_ his was up Monroe's body to wrap his legs around him. Monroe grabbed Nick's ass, digging his fingers into the tight material and squeezing hard just to feel the soft flesh that hid underneath. And if he couldn't help the quick pull down and in while he ground his hips up into Nick then so be it. The way Nick arched backwards and mewled so well just showed how much he appreciated it.

Monroe mouthed his way down the offered flesh of Nick's neck. He angled one of his legs forward and lowered Nick's pliant body onto it before slowly dragging him up until Nick's groin matched up with his own. A brilliant moment of friction before Monroe repeated it. This time he teethed lightly along that spot he hadn't been able to get out of his head since Nick had shyly, fucking bashfully, offered it to Monroe as some sort of virginal offering.

Nick was letting out steady keening whimpers and shuddering, loosely clinging to Monroe's neck.

God, but he would never get enough of this man. This man that whined when Monroe traced his clavicle with his mouth. This man that twisted his fingers in Monroe's hair and bucked when Monroe stroked his teeth over the still-shirt-covered weak spot on his chest. This man who was delighted to help Monroe get off his shirt one handed (the other still holding Nick up against him).

Nick writhed and made obscene noises when Monroe sucked and bit aggressively at that craze-inducing spot. The way Nick flung himself about and tugged at Monroe's shoulders as he spasmed spoke to the base part of Monroe that was pleased very deeply that he could so easily hold Nick to him so thoroughly without the need of extra support. A pleased rumble escaped his throat as he thought about all the ways he could use his strength and larger size to wreck Nick completely. His hands dug into Nick's ass and he dragged them upwards, enjoying the feel of Nicks' body rolling against his.

Then Nick let out this breathy little whimper against Monroe's neck, just under the corner of his jaw, his teeth accidentally grazing that sensitive spot and his breath puffed against Monroe's ear. Monroe's hands clenched without him telling them to, his face –and body- shifted involuntarily.

Nick's body tensed around Monroe and then that coppery tang of blood was in the air and Monroe was spreading his claws to rake down the soft flesh of Nick's back.

Then Monroe was back in control and horrified at himself. He backed away, stopped because Nick was wrapped around him and thus impossible to back away from, grabbed Nick and –as gently as he could- tossed Nick away from himself.

He held his hands out away from himself and shook. He couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything, and couldn't smell anything.

Nick was saying something, picking himself up. Monroe heard none of it. All he could hear, smell, taste, feel was Nick's flesh breaking and bleeding under his hands. Monroe backed up until his back hit the wall.

"S-stay away from me, Nick. Don't come n-near me again."

Nick looked up at him, his eyes full of that hurt again. That hurt that Monroe wanted to lick away. That hurt that parts of Monroe wanted to put there with his teeth and claws and maybe a few implements from his kitchen.

"I can't- I can't control myself enough. You just- it's not. Le-leave your key on the counter."

Monroe fled.

At first Nick was confused, finding his long lost jacket hanging so innocently in Monroe's kitchen. All he could think about was how much he had failed Monroe, was continuing to fail Monroe. After that he was hurt and resigned to the thought that while Monroe may love him it wasn't enough to overcome his faults. Then he was aroused. So thoroughly and completely wrecked with how turned on he was that he had forgotten how to function properly.

And now he was back to being resigned, rejected, and completely and utterly despondent as he wallowed in his failures as a human being in a loud and boisterous bar. Also he was attempting to pickle himself with atrociously sweet alcoholic shots.

A pert woman walked up to him, tilted her head, canted her hips, scrunched her nose playfully. Nick followed her home. She didn't ask about the bruises across his legs and back. She respectfully stayed away from the very large and livid love-bite on his chest.

Nick missed Warren. Simple, easy to understand Warren with his low maintenance and lower expectations.


	10. And Learn How The Other Half Lives

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Also I'd like to thank the people who reviewed the last chapter:

DL Barnners: I have not even begun to illustrate the evils of red. You will learn. You. Will. LEARN.

Hey look! Turn about! "its the same reason you keep showing up in Monroe's kitchen" should be "**it's **the same reason…" Heh.

Sometimes I insinuate an unconscious correlation that I have into a story. Kitchens, to me, are the heart of a home. They are where the household lives together. The rest of the rooms are chambers or, I suppose it would be more apropos in Monroe's case to say, monk's cells.

But yeah, all of my papers for everything are covered in two things: gay porn and poetry. Which basically sums me up quite well.

And thank you! I really like my poetry as well. Ha. Ha. Hahahhahahahaha.

I haven't seen the new episode. I have it ready now because the e-mail alert I get for reviews reminded me that I should probably watch it maybe. I will say that it's a good sign for me that Monroe's favorite color is red because that's what it is in my story as well. It just seems very well thought out to me. Maybe it is fan-service but at the same time maybe it's not. I mean, as disgusting as it is considering Monroe's family, red is his heritage. It's like me with green. Green is home to me. Always has been always will be. My I'm depressed leave me alone to brood in my shell of mangsting blanket is a white and green afghan my granma made me. My moping sweater is an over-sized green hoodie. My fuck it's the apocalypse winter coat is green. And it's all because of the association I have with green. Green is all the good things of home. It's stewed cabbage and table clothes. It's kitchen containers covered in frogs and clovers and the pines in the backyard. It's picking oak leaves out of my sweater and running through corn fields. It's the grass under my feet and the kite in the air while mum and brother tried to tackle each other. It's highway signs and beached kelp. It's sitting in the clover patch in front of the house and telling each other stories while picking clovers to chew. It's the green centers in the eyes of my first crush. It's the giant green shamrock shaped glitters easter egged around the house year round. It's the smooth river rocks and the paint on my mum's nails. It's the tinsel strings in the step down into the living room and the color of the glitter we booby trapped the windows with. Gray is my favorite color because I'm narcissistic and I like the color of my own eyes but green is the color of my coffee mug and of my bathrobe. To me it represents all the nice and lively and wonderful things of growing up in an Irish-American household. I can see the logic behind red being Monroe's favorite color.

Tv Centric Universe: Yeah, Nick would be desperate. The reason I write fanfiction at all (literally the reason) is the complete and utter lack of the application of common sense. Maybe this stems from growing up in an utterly crap environment and having witnessed people from "tragic" backgrounds or maybe it's just my bitterness at having been one of those kids with a fucked up past but I hate hate hate how Hollywood and other media depict people who have had bad stuff happen to them. It's never accurate. Ever. And that bothers the hell out of me. The world is made of amazing people, yeah, but everyone is equal parts monster and hero and I hate how the media tries to make this myth that out there are people who are all parts good and no parts bad. It's trite and idiotic. There are monsters in this world and they are right there under our skin. The man who protected me is the same man who orchestrated my destruction. The woman who made me strong is the same woman who gave me my weaknesses. /rant

I like Warren. I didn't want to, really, but I do. I find him ferally charming. Like a street dog with floppy ears you just want to scritch but you know if you do he'll take off a few fingers but maybe just a little but you think it's worth it.

Thanks for reviewing. For a second there I was beginning to doubt my charms. Charms are important. Or something. Do you like where this is going/ has gone? It's possible that I need validating sometimes. I feel as if I've sort of wandered aimlessly until now, seeing as how I kept changing my mind on where I wanted this to go specifically. Usually I have a thesis when I write. Something like "What if Mycroft stole all of Sherlock's food as a child?" and then I pick a tone (which is almost always darkly humorous) and begin writing but with this one it started out with "I want Monroe to hate himself. Utterly hate himself and I want Nick to not care and use him." And then it became "I want to break Nick into tiny little emotional pieces and have Monroe crush him" and then it became "I want a double fisting of unrequited love and lots of emotionally charged angsty sex" and then "I want them to just be BFFs that sometime sleep with each other but really aren't romantically attracted to each other" and now… it's like… well, um, erm… uh… shit.. ah… ah… I knew I should have written it down! Fuck, no! I did! Damnit now I have to find my pay stub cause I wrote it on that. Fuck fuck fuck fuck THERE ARE SO MANY SCRAPS OF PAPER IN MY ROOM THAT HAVE WRITING ON THEM THAT MAKE NO SENSE OUT OF CONTEXT. WHY DOES MY HANDWRITING LOOK LIKE A DRUNKEN CRAB AND AN EPILEPTIC CHICKEN GOT JIGGY WITH IT ON PAPER. Anyway, I know what it is and have it around here somewhere…. This is why I should hang my white board back up. One energetic night and suddenly I'm afraid to get concussed by falling whiteboards in my sleep. I'm such a wimp.

YukiXP: Dude you should have seen me writing it. I've been told I make the strangest faces when I'm writing. I wish I had a friend who wouldn't get weirded out or start thinking I was coming on to them for acting these types of scenes out because I'm more kinesthetic than mental-picture and it'd help. There's only so much I can draw from my pathetic experiences to help get this correct.

As for the degrees of love, well, everything involves degrees and much of it is less love than more a sort of emotional poverty. Again it's what I've quoted before: "The chasm of my chest a cliché / Made out of the universal poverty / In which our hearts may grow / But nothing lives within." Talking about the lack of emotional wealth that our (and by that I mean the one I live in which is Western) society encourages. We make room for more love in our hearts but the sort of puritanical tinges to our culture makes it so that the other party is less willing or too embarrassed to give us the amount of reciprocation required to fill the gaps we've made for them.

As for understanding, well, ah… there was a lot I didn't understand until I truly and completely fell in love with someone who loved me back and was basically a really good compliment for me. Alack for me his wife was less inclined to agree. Thus the curse of the demiromantic asexual is revealed. You fall in love and you don't know you are because it's not really your division until you're curled up under your blankets texting your sister and all she has to say is "Oh Freddy… I'm so sorry."

Welp, I think I've more than hinted enough at my failures in life to get on with the failures in Nick and Monroe's.

Oh, one last thing: the confusion in who is doing what is purposeful. Like I said (repetition much?) before: I want to instill a sense of confusion in the reader just as much as in the characters themselves. The vagueness, the lack of clean distinction between who is being narrated… etc is purposeful. I'm sorry that it makes reading harder for you even though that's sort of my intent.

Paradise is troubling in general so don't worry about it.

I've been entertaining myself by seeing how many legitimate references I can put into this for some reason and still be subtle-ish.

Also I use the word "mou" in this chapter. Don't worry, it's a real word and everything.

[I have this sinking suspicion that my replies are getting too long but then I stop caring because it's my house and my rule so I can do what I want and really if no one wants to read them they can skip right past even though I put a lot into the replies that could help with reading.] Besides, replying to your reviews helps me focus.

Warnings for gore and terrible terrible crimes against humanity. That's really not a joke. This chapter is... well.. different than most of the other ones. It's uh.. first of all it's longer but also... well... you'll see.

Chapter Ten: And Learn How The Other Half Lives

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><p><em>The sunlight pierces in my outsides And I claw back at it passively. unmoved, I sit burning. <em>

As a homicide detective Nick had built up an iron-clad stomach against the gore and the horrors of what people can do and turn into. On the TV and on the news they say nothing can prepare you for things like this. Spending two years knowing the inevitable and imagining it every time Warren closed his eyes and slept next to Nick worked well enough to prepare him.

Warren gasped feebly in Nick's arms, moaning in pain every time Nick's quick steps jostled him. His wet breathes ghosted against Nick's neck as he held him tighter, leaning around the cover the trees in the park provided.

But did he hope Monroe was home and maybe forgiven him or something. Anything. He wasn't going to let Warren die in a fucking park.

Nick adjusted his hold on Warren, taking a moment to breathe in deep with his nose buried in Warren's hair. He kissed his temple, fixed his eyes ahead of him and ran, wincing at the stuttering little gasping grunts Warren let out with every step.

Nick refuses to remember laying Warren down on Monroe's kitchen table. Refuses to remember mopping Warren's skin clean of blood. Refused Warren's choked screams as needle and thread ran through his skin. Refused to let go of Warren's pale, thin hands. Refused to sleep. Refused to move from Warren's side.

Wakes up in a room he's never been in. The muted yellows, greens, and browns complimenting a wolfish theme scream Monroe. His head hurts and there's a thick, muggy pain pressing outward from his bones. He rolls over and buries his head in the pillow that smells like sandalwood and lavender. Groans and writhes in the homey bed. He picks up the vague scents of food and the oblivious tweets of birds outside.

He tries to pretend that the last forty-eight hours are horrifying nightmare. Squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his hands in the sheets and pretends he's in Warren's dark bedroom on his perpetually dirty sheets, blocking out the yellowed light of his office next door. Nick even goes as far as to mouth 'War- you left the door open again.' Pretends to let that warm feeling settle in his aching stomach at the thought that Warren wanted to keep tabs on him while he's defenseless to the world.

He gasps and rolls away when he feels a clammy spindle of a hand touch his forearm.

"H-hey," Warren croaked at him. Nick sat up, the blanket falling off him to pool under his boxered ass. Vaguely, Nick wondered where the rest of his clothes went.

"Warren? What are you-" Nick frowned, his eyes picking up the sweat on Warren's brow and the tremors in his body. "Lay down. What are you doing?"

Warren smiled and let Nick guide him onto the bed and into his arms. He rubbed his foot against Warren's in an old gesture he learned from Juliet. Warren's thin arms draped across Nick's back to dangle his hand just above his ass, his other hand, bruised and scratched, curled against his chest.

Nick inhaled the sharp tang of Warren's greasy hair and lets his hand lightly pet Warren's back, his other arm cradling Warren's sweaty head into the niche below his chin.

In the distance, something sizzles on the stove and plates click as they're shuffled. Nick closes his eyes and thanks whatever is listening for this moment.

"They almost killed you."

"But they didn't."

"We're not strong enough."

Warren rubbed his wet forehead against Nick's neck.

"We are."

"We're not ready."

Warren's hand pressed against Nick's lower back, lightly curling his nails against the sensitive dip of Nick's spine.

"We will be."

"You almost died on me," Nick murmurs quietly, almost as if saying it will take the almost away.

"But I didn't," Warren says, nuzzling closer. Nick stays silent; his only reply the gentle dig of his nails into the edge of Warren's shoulder blade. His entire being is tense and thrumming with the disbelief. He knows full well the mortality of people.

"Baby," Warren says, that disappointment and concern in his voice. "No, look at me." He pulls away from Nick and grabs his chin, scraping his nails through Nick's stubble. His black eyes taking on that angry concern that's typical for him.

"Nicky, don't do this again. We can win this, alright? Alright?" He leans over Nick, crowding him back against the mattress. His eyes intense and dark, hovering over Nick with an intensity Nick knew well. If he pretended hard enough he could pretend they were in Warren's bed and soon Warren would be digging his nails into Nick's back and moaning in the good way instead of the bad way. "You and me, baby. You and me. Remember?" He lightly nips at Nick's jaw, his teeth scraping briefly against Nick's stubble. It makes Nick shudder and want even through the doubt and despondency.

"….Yeah, I do." He hugs Warren to him as tight as he is comfortable with considering Warren's injuries and rolls them so that Warren is lying back down again. He buries his face in Warren's shoulder and bites lightly, absently. Warren runs his nails up and down Nick's back, whispering little nothings between soothing nips to the sensitive shell of Nick's ear.

There is a simple pleasure and meditative state gained from setting between his thighs the curved shape of his instrument. He'd sit, feeling only the strings underhand and the vibrations of ordered chords throughout his body, the only thoughts in his head the metronomic progression of time and the dance of hieroglyphic dots and dashes- much the Morse code of the musical beast.

His eyes glint in the dark- a vibration in the night air he knows better than the civilized notes of Bach makes dappled night shade leaves dance hypnotically above his eyes. He tightens his fingers in the sheets and refuses the fantasy his baser side desires. Denies himself the pleasure of even thinking about pretty little women in tantalizing cloacks of red. This bright color the apple-skins of Eve, covering her shame (shame? Shame is something darker and stranger than a naked body). He must not give in to what she offers. He cannot know the taste of her sin. Cannot penetrate her wanting flesh with his pure white teeth, cannot split open the pake innards of her body to expose those secrets of the flesh.

"Tell me," he thinks, "Little Red As Blood, Little White As Snow, do you know the color of sin? The color of the human disease? No? Well, let me teach you." As the light dies from her imagined eyes Monroe gasps, clenching his hand a little too tight. He lays in his own sweat and pants.

Now look what a mess he's made of himself.

He's drifting somewhere downward, his dreams of the slick warmth of a young woman's flesh bloodied. He looks up to see the angry eyes of his love. Nick stands there frocked in dark red leather like dried tacky blood. He has an arrow in his hand that has a heart-shaped head glinting as much as lead bricks would.

"You are the wrong that I am to set right. You say you love me."

"I love so that you may kill me. Create from my bones the lives that my lusts put out."

"Put out the light and then put out the light."

"Does this make me undeserving of your torture?"

Nick's white mou opens; ready to disgorge the truths they both seek—

Pounding, the smell of blood, and for a moment Monroe believes he's still dreaming. His ears pick up the sound of groans and Nick's voice. Out of bed and down the rabbit hole he goes, pulling on a sweater and jeans. The blood scent is still there and Monroe sighs, hating Nick for always coming to him hurt.

For a moment as Nick pushes past him, chanting about help and bleeding out, Monroe thinks with his hindbrain. Thinks that Nick has brought him a present like Angelina used to do. Lured him home a pretty young thing with her breasts just beginning to gain the weight of womanhood. Distantly, Monroe hears white noise. He knows he's saying things like 'get the dish towels, grab my first aid kit from the bathroom, hold him down.' But all he can think on is a loop of a memory.

He's slicing strips of flesh off of her, she's moaning in pain too far gone to scream anymore. Angelina has gored the girl's sex and straddles the blood covered thighs, nibbling coquettishly at the strips he makes. There's a heat in his belly that curls into a tight knot.

He remembers he licked the tears from her face, luxuriating in the fear spiced salty skin.

Monroe feels every ounce the monster his when Nick's chants break through Monroe's haze.

"Baby, please don't die," he says, "Not yet, not now. Please please please please, no." There's tears on Nick's face and Monroe wants to lick them off- wants to get them to stop- wants to make more of them- wants him to scream and beg- wants him to moan in pleasure. Fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck fuck fuck fuck __**fuck fuck fuck fuck.**_

They lay Warren on the couch (stains, stains fuck, he's going to have to burn his couch).

And Monroe wants to take Nick. Wants to bend him over the blood soaked kitchen table and fuck him until he screams.

He's not sure if he wants him to scream in pain or pleasure.

He's not sure.

He hopes it's pleasure. Hopes because he's a monster and monsters –especially the big bad wolves- aren't allowed happy endings.

Throughout the dregs of the night he's witness to the desperation of love. He wishes for a cipher in the dark, a quickening of some damnation rakes through him. The scent of bloody fears thick in the air, cloying and heady, like the first time he brought off a man with his mouth. He had felt and tasted his seed on the back of his tongue for days. His cheeks flushed with pride in himself for causing pleasure where he wanted to destroy. He remembers the joy he had felt when he had thought he had hurt no one, had broken nothing, had caused pleasure, had made this man cry out in a good way.

Nick kneels on the ground next to Warren's head, his purled body a grim votive. Monroe remembers waking up the morning after to discover the scratches raked down the man's flank and the bruises on his thighs and arms. "In passions red and desires white a wolf will not see you through the night unharmed." A vague recollection. A promise given. A heart broken. Monroe remembers the man's body of work well. He remembers his betrayal and the blurry trip to the emergency room. He remembers the scars he had made and the wracking guilt as doctors shouted code! code! He remembers the cool look of terror that he had given him. He remembers how easy it is with women. Kill or mate. No in-between. Men like Nick would always be his downfall.

Monroe navigates his dark living room to where Nick has fallen asleep and slumped against the side of the couch. Monroe picks him up easily. Takes a moment to repress the desire to growl in pleasure. Then disentangled Warren's and Nick's hands from each other and carried Nick away. He chuffs and curls against Monroe's chest in his sleep. His clothes are stiff and rank with blood and mud.

It takes him a moment to detach Nick from him to lay him on the bed, his hands cling meekly to Monroe's shirt. Nick frowns and moans sleepily.

Laying on Monroe's bed with the quiet light of the moon highlighting his body, Nick looks defenseless and pliant. Monroe rubs his tongue over his bottom lip and reaches to pull off Nick's shirt, determined to not have his bed smell like blood, fear, and Nick for weeks. Nick wriggles and sleepily assists Monroe in disrobing him.

This would be so much easier for Monroe if he didn't want to find some way to destroy Nick with his dick.

He retreats downstairs and into the bathroom. Grabs a towel, folds it up, and curls up in his bathtub. He closes his eyes and prays to whoever will take him that this is over soon and he has nothing to regret when it is.


	11. Drowning Out Memories

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Also I'd like to thank the person who reviewed the last chapter:

DL Barnners: The downfall for me is I am "men like Nick." I disappear for days, weeks, months on end (years in some cases) and when I come back I'm not sorry. Really, I'm not. I'm confused why you're mad at me and possibly why my whereabouts are of such import to someone who isn't me but I don't feel bad for going off on my own. I am basically a "no maintenance" person; knowing intellectually that I am cared for is enough for me but this happens to cause a lot of friction with… basically everyone.

The cello bit was supposed to be the only sensual one. Monroe is torn between a predilection for violence and abhorring the consequences of it. Sort of like how some pedophiles will chemically castrate themselves so they have less of a chance to hurt children.

I don't like the word plethora. It's a good word and all but it sounds too much like placenta. You watch one cat eat hers and your just done with the word.

Re "Little Red As Blood, Little White As Snow": It's actually an amalgamation of a lot of references. Most obviously it's a reference to Snow White who 'had lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow, and hair as black as the ebony wood of the Queen's window frame.' The "do you know the color of sin" is a reference to Isaiah 1:18 which says "Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." I used the King James Version. I think it's Cambridge Ed. I'm not actually Christian so I don't know Christian lore very well so I'm operating off of what little I've gleaned from literature classes I've taken where the majority of the students and teachers have been some form of Christian. It's also a nod to a story I read in a sci fi and fantasy lit class I had a while ago. I can't remember its name or the author and I can't find the text even though I hoard English textbooks like some people hoard old newspapers.

I must confess I haven't watched the latest episode yet. I should, I really should, I know but I've been uh… doing stuff… yeah… that's it. Stuff.

Have fun with the insomnia. I'm a professional insomniac, myself. And as a professional I feel I must warn you: whatever your brain tells you at four in the morning it is not, I repeat, not a good idea to go into the marshlands to find "nature stuffs" to redecorate your room with.

Meg67: Thank you! I do love a compliment. I know I'm not fantastic (my grasp of grammar is rudimentary at best) but I do try. There really aren't any time shifts backwards, it's all just leaps forward. Where Angelina eating skin is mentioned is a memory but not a narrative flashback- just Monroe's brain getting muddled by the blood. This chapter is set ~four years after the beginning of my plot arch (the beginning is two years before the first chapter). I think I vaguely mention how much time has passed in each chapter but I know not everyone reads stories as close as me so there you go. Anymore questions you have you know where to direct them. Especially if I just confuse you more. It makes sense in my head but often times that doesn't mean it does out my mouth. You don't have to but I'd suggest reading the replies at the top of each chapter because I often put little hints or explanations into them.

Unfortunately, today's chapter is going to be short but hey, it's how the plan goes.

Chapter 11: Drown Out The Light

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><p><em>The residence of mind The Memory bright as an unsteady picture An impractical wish to bookmark this location A device for the chronically lost. Unlike a gander, I cannot find my way back. I gander at black ink. It always seems to insinuate itself Onto my white, lined face. Black my eyes brighter than I can handle. <em>

Running. Running. He just has to keep running. He knows their boundaries; their limits. This edge is it and once he's over… His feet hit the asphalt and buckle under him. Rolling, he keeps his eyes wide open. He knows their boundaries. He knows… he knows. The spaces in between. He sprints down the road, dodging street lamps and skirting yards. Nick doesn't turn around because he can't, because it's a bad idea, because it'll slow him down, because he trusts that the feet he hears belong to the right person.

At the intersection he sees it and he cusses in between pants and takes off into an alley. It's not safe but it's better than the alternative. A black shade gushed up to Nick's left and he gives a stunted yell before throwing himself to the side.

A scream and happy gurgling tell him someone was not as lucky. The gurgle turns into an enraged frothing noise. Nick drags his head up from cracked cement below him. He turns and it seems like it's happening guttatim slow, racecar fast. There is this sound like one thousand fire hydrants softly bursting open at once. Nick crawls over to where little charcoal colored bubbles are drifting up from a prone figure.

The figure smiles and laughs. It's a pained merriment. There isn't any blood. Just, just- Nick doesn't even have the words. He smiles, too. It's just as grim, just as relieved. Just as damned.

It's a John Williams. Not a classical piece but he still finds it soothing. His fingers migrate slowly, steadily. He closes his eyes and listens to the sounds and attempts to forget everything.

He plays a flat instead of a sharp. Warren's young face floats behind his eyes. He's laughing and tugging Nick closer. They looked so happy, so practiced, so perfect. He makes it through barely another bar before an eighth note becomes a sixteenth. Warren sitting on Monroe's front porch, watching with fond eyes as Nick ran Monroe's mower over his grass. 'Thou aby it, dear' he had said and Monroe hadn't been able to place it at first. Nick had turned off the mower, wiped his brow with his shirt-edge, and began making his way towards them. 'Look where thy love comes! yonder is thy dear."

Monroe gives up playing when the memories won't stop interfering.

'And I have found Demetrius like a jewel, Mine own and not mine own.' Warren had looked so serious, so determined. Monroe had been lost. Now he was just as lost. Standing in his living room, drinking absently from his beer bottle.

He can't bare to stand in his own kitchen anymore. He runs in there and flees just as quickly. The whole house still smells like Nick and Warren. –Nick'n'Warren-

He's convinced himself that the spot under the microwave still smells like sex; dirty, guilty, mind-blowing sex.

He's convinced himself to keep his couch. It really does still smell like blood and sweat and NicknWarren cuddling up and whispering in each other's ears.

He looks out his living room window and whispers. So quietly he might as well be simply mouthing the words.

"'Truth kills truth.'"

Monroe had looked it up, remembered the play.

Warren had known. He'd smiled and kissed Nick with the same mouth that Nick had betrayed him. He'd sat there and talked to the man who knew the noises that came out of Nick's mouth too well.

Jesus.

He was fucked.

He needed to stop drinking whiskey so late at night, he decides. The room spins.

"Fuck you, Robin Goodfellow."

Monroe snickers at the idea of blaming fairies for faggots.

His head meets the ground and he stares straight ahead. Or as straight ahead as he can with the room all wobly. He can see the kitchen floor from here.


	12. Showers in the Dark

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Less quickly, let me respond to the _assload of people _who reviewed the last chapter:

DL Barnners: I meant to imply in the story that men Monroe romantically and sexually attracts to have a habit of confusing his emotions. It's sort of a very subtle and almost-insubstantial way of me saying that Monroe probably isn't romantically attracted to women. (The first time I read the raised cats comments I thought it was in reference to the men-like-Nick comment and I was like "why does everybody keep calling me a cat?")

For me it's less nostalgia and more a knowledge that I enjoy being around people even if it isn't something that I reach for instinctually. I don't do drama very well (or at all) and as a result I end up not getting pulled into anyone's shit which I'm fine with.

Other things not to do at three in the morning: build furniture from other furniture.

I'm not myself a big fan of the whiskey-as-a-solution thing but I know it's pretty common. So there. You grow up the way I did and you learn to not like a lot of things or die from a lot of things. And thank you! I don't particularly think my writing is "absolutely wonderful" yet but maybe one day I'll be good enough to earn that.

Darkfire The Phoenix: First of all, I am simply flabbergasted and tickled red all over at the sheer amount you have reviewed. Seriously. I woke up and thought my email proxy had become faulty again like the time it kept gyrating and resending me the same FF Favorite Author Alert.

Now I shall get down to business. (No Huns were harmed in the making of this reply.)

Re Chapter Seven Review: I did mean "growl" there so congratulations, I now owe you a story. It doesn't have to be fanfic but everyone always picks ff anyway so it seems pointless to say otherwise. I meant to go through and correct my typos over the weekend but I got… uh… _busy_ with things.

It's good to know you like it even if you don't step out and say it (though if this is you clinging so waifish to the shadows I must be on guard to protect my purity should you decide to fling those shy shades away).

And _thank you_. I do try my hardest to make characters seem as real as I can. Honestly, it'd probably be harder for me to write an unrealistic character than anything else. Nick does seem two-dimensional a bit, doesn't he? Or maybe I'm just being too subtle with him… Sometimes- a lot of the times- ok, all of the time I forget that people don't read a story as closely as I do. The seeming two dimensionality is probably down to me thinking that people would make large logical leaps about his childhood and the attitudes it gave him. My fault. Again, I over-estimate how easy it is for people to intuit things.

Re Chapter 9 Review: It seems real because it's accurate. That's how a mostly well-adjusted, self-aware person would respond to Nick as a fuck up. Well, aside from the almost eating him like meatloaf on the kitchen counter bit. Call that creative license. As for Nick, well, there may be hope for him but people do rarely change. Especially for anyone else. It's been my experience that people only change for themselves and considering Nick's attitude of everyone-else-into-the-life-raft-before-me then…. I think we can all see where this is going.

Everyone talks to the characters, my dear. Except me. I think it's silly. But I seem to be the minority on this. Maybe it has to do with amount of investment and the fourth wall. I love watching shows and writhing in agony at the sheer awkwardness those actors must feel. My suspension of disbelief bone is thoroughly perverted. You should see me watching sitcoms. It's possible I yell and throw stuff.

Pake/pale: Also slang for opaque. I should probably have pointed it out. Or spelled it differently. One of the two.

He'd probably get a bouquet of wormwood, ambrosia, anemone, and probably some columbine. Maybe with a red rose at the center.

Monroe and Nick had sex. Dirty, awesome sex. Which I wrote out and everything but decided that it wasn't pertinent to the plot and so put it in a drawer. Plus I'm sort of hovering firmly in the R rating and I don't want to push it too much. (But it was aweomse, you should have read it.)

I find it kind of trite to have to put in a reaction scene every damn time Monroe meets somebody new who can see what he is. Given Warren's character and the fact that Nick most likely talked to him about Monroe then we can use our super-sleuthing powers to deduct that Warren figured out he was in Monroe's house and everything went smoothly.

YukiXP: Buahahahahaha! Oh gentle Puck. He makes me laugh so. But not really. I hate that damn play.  
>I blush (metaphorically) at your robust praise. I'm a bit of both, really. I became an English major because I already knew all the works. I do stupid things like read academic canon for fun (and profit, apparently). My major is sort of more a double-fisting of Early American History (pre-Columbian exchange and up to the Civil War with an emphasis on Native Americans) and Literature (with an emphasis on Native Americans).<p>

It is important to remember it's _emotional_ poverty and not just love.

The thing is I have a soulmate. The Wife and I have been together for about ten years now. We're happily BFFs for life. The problem is that I don't do romantic relationships well. I'm not particularly interested in them, though. It's that whole being demiromantic thing. I don't care about dating/romantic relationships until I'm hopelessly in love and by then it's too late.

And Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, and good golly let me rub all over you. Quickest way into my heart is through my poetry. I don't mean that to mean that it's autobiographical so much as I invest a lot into it because I love it so much.

Because neighbors are inconvenient. Also it's sort of, at least from my experiences growing up, a west coast cultural thing. Nobody talks to or interacts with their neighbors; you just spend ten years watching them from afar and asking the empty air "why, why were they wearing grass skirts in the middle of December?"

There might be more characters. It's possible. I wouldn't place bets on it, though.

The grimms are causing quite a huge fucking uproar and maybe if I was nice I'd explain it to you. Because seriously? It's really fucking amazing what I've plotted out for the shit you people don't see. It might be in the sequel though. So there's always hope some of your questions will be answered. But we all know my stance on hoping by now.

Hap is my favorite character. Monroe is just a lot of fun. _So much fun._

TV Centric Universe: Being angry and sad sucks. Trust me, I've had a lot of personal experience. I love the word awesomesauce by the way. It's right up there with trundle. How awesome is that intransitive verb right there? Awesomesauce levels of awesome. That's how much.

You people better not leave me more reviews while I'm out. Who am I kidding? MORE. MORE! You people are fucking awesome. I hope you all know that I sit there at work and refresh the story traffic stats so that I can watch you all read it. ("Yesssss, yessss, my prettiesssss. Reaeaeaead my ssssstory.") You really keep me motivated to write more.

I will say that you people are lucky I have things with numbers and cannot CANNOT stand round, even numbers. Other wise this would be the last chapter. I wanted to make chapter eleven the last but I thought that would be unfair for you people to just end it without warning. So **next chapter is the last one but there will be a sequel.** If you want me to alert you of when and where the sequel is then send me a message and we'll work something out there.

Also the bit of poem I've quoted at the top is mine but with very heavy references to Shakespeare.

Chapter Twelve: Showers in the Dark

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><p><em>The Lovers and Madmen- weary task fordone. The roars, a hungry lion marked with wasted brand's glow. Blood and Strength through the years. Every one! Let forth your sprite And shower in the dark.<em>

Monroe wakes up and his mouth tastes like his grandmother's carpet. His head throbs inwards like his skull is trying to squeeze his brain rhythmically. He rolls over and hits his couch. Groans. Raises his hand and runs his fingers through his hair. It feels thick and matted. He feels like he's made of yellow. Yellow is awful. He never wants to be yellow again.

The clock says it's two in the morning but that simply cannot be. Monroe barely manages to make the effort to give his teeth a minimum brushing and he stands in the shower, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, hot water doing a poor job of cleaning off the feeling of vomit. He hadn't even thrown up; he just _feels like he's caked in it._

When he falls on his bed the inside of his mouth still kind of tastes like coppery wool, bile, old malt balls, and now the added taste of mint to the mix. He pulls his blankets over him and prays that he doesn't have anymore of his crazy ass dreams.

He sees only Puck, floating in the air. They both revolve.

"...and the world behowls the moon. From the presence of the sun, following darkness like a dream," Says Puck.

"Where am I going?"

"Where else to go? I'll give you broom."

"Do I need a boon?"

"A boon so sweet, so well. Follow your darkened snake."

"But won't I get bit?"

"And in your veins a sweet poison takes. For love of life, prick your jewel your own."

"Jewel? Is't my snake blackened?"

"Rub your thumbs, young wolf, and under the Chimney Sweep's skin…"

"What's under it?"  
>Puck only laughed and turned to face away. His body disappeared in a Cheshire style.<p>

Of all the things Nick had done, he figured this was the least wrong. He had waited, silently, patiently, until the lights had gone out. Then he had waited a little longer. There were things he would never be able to have, he knew. Things he had to leave behind entirely. No more weaknesses, no more being taken advantage of. Soon Portland would be more of a memory and less of an aching wound to him.

Getting in the door had been easy. Up the stairs was easy as well. He knew this house well. He knew where the sixth step creaked and where he'd have to tip toe past a loose floorboard. He even knew to lift the door up when he opened it to avoid that clicking noise. It wasn't even hard. This wasn't the first time he'd snuck into someone's home while they were sleeping.

Maybe this was the first time it wouldn't end with someone dead, though. He hoped.

Nick was more than aware of how creepy this was.

Monroe was so animated in his sleep, though. It was soothing, in a way. Warren had been such a heavy sleeper, so still, so serene. It had bothered Nick. Monroe snuffed in his sleep and curled up more. Nick couldn't help the smile on his face as Monroe seemed to try to burrow into the blanket where it had gathered behind him like some phantom man.

More than momentarily, Nick is overcome with the urge to take off his shoes, hang his coat up, remove his jeans, and crawl under the blankets with Monroe. It doesn't bother him to think that Monroe would probably lay across Nick as if he were some giant pillow. Maybe Nick would even like it. It sounded enjoyable.

Instead he bent down next to Monroe's sleep-pouting face and wished he had real words to say. Something to help Monroe. Something that made all he put him through ok. He lightly kissed Monroe's nose and whispered that he was so sorry. Monroe made a foggily distressed noise in his sleep and seemed to reach for Nick with his body.

Nick lightly ran his hand over Monroe's shoulder, barely brave enough to let his hands feel the crests of the sheet across him.

With one last look, he turns and leaves.

Now he has only one other thing to do before he can start over somewhere else. Maybe it was right of the creatures Nick first met to be afraid of him, to run from him. He was something that needed to be fled.

No compromising.

Stern.

Relentless.

Forbidding.

Uninviting.

Harsh.

There was no more pretending he was a good guy; no more faking like he was anything else than what he was.

"What are monsters afraid of?" the young man Nick later learned was named Warren had asked him. Back then Nick had had no answer for him. He had one now. It was too late, far too late but at least he had the answer.

Bigger monsters.


	13. A Prologue To The Spaces In Between

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild/moderate levels of Nick/OC sort of. It's hard to explain the OC's purpose without giving away too much of the plot and the one cardinal rule of literature is, to me at least, don't spill the beans.

Let me respond to the people who reviewed the last chapter:

ShoelessKayla: You can't wait long enough! This is the last chapter. It's not even technically for this story, it's actually the prologue to the sequel. So…. Yeah.

Hime-Miko-Love: I'm glad that even though my writing style and format were difficult for you to understand you still like it. I'm also glad it seems full-fledged because I've tried to make it as whole as I can. It always bugs me when stories aren't accurate to the mentality of the people who are in it.

Hey, you know if you really want a sex scene you'll just have to spot one of my numerous typos and tell me about it. Then you can request a TTWW!canon sex scene and I'll just have to post it for you. Prompts for requests could be like "What if Monroe hadn't run out of the kitchen?" or "What if Monroe took Nick up on his offer on the couch?" I mean if you really wanted it. It wouldn't actually _count_ as TTWWcanon but I would definitely write a little sex-theater for you. Probably would post it on LJ or somewhere I'd feel less nervous about explicit content than FF. I do have a dreamwidth now so maybe on there, I guess. This isn't _technically_ the end. The end of this story was chapter twelve but I HATE the number twelve so instead you people get a prologue for the next story: The Spaces In Between.

It's lucky for you people that my "lovely house in the woods" got snowed in and my professor thinks he'll be too snowed in to make it to class tomorrow so I don't have an exam otherwise you people would have to wait another day.

Also eating rice and beans out of a cardboard box fills me with rage and rice. I would have said and beans as well but there were barely any fucking beans in this thing at all. What a gobedamned rip off.

And I just put on my hoodie because all my shirts are in the drier and it's fucking cold. I failed to remember that I'd left it next to my window so now I have a feeling like someone ran an ice cube from my collarbone down past my bellybutton. Fucking cold as shit zipper.

It's possible that I've had too much caffeine and sugar today. It is also possible that I'm already feeling the effects of cabin fever. I don't do well not being able to go outside. I want my dog in my room but he's not allowed upstairs…

**If you go to my profile page you will find the sequel up already under the title The Spaces In Between. Don't get your hopes up, though. The first chapter is just this prologue below. Posting will continue on schedule with the sequel. **

Chapter Thirteen: A Prologue to The Spaces In Between

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><p><em>His eyes are auspicious birds. Vultures mounted atop road kill. That settling feeling when a hawk has no interest in making a meal Out of you. But the raptor considers it… I've seen burnt summer skies The color of his eyes perambulator- Alive but full of heat. <em>

He was reeling in the light, a visible strike against the whited out trees. White shapes against a white board. His jeans looked dark and feeble in the over-powering color. It seemed he spent all of his time running away these days.

When he was twelve Aunt Marie had taken him south during winter. In a rickety old Toyota, they had climbed the Sierra Nevadas. She had said it was a surprise trip- a Christmas holiday. Nick hadn't believed her breathless with nerves claims. He had simply jerked his head once and climbed out to close the rusted cattle gate behind the car. He was used to following orders and never getting explanations, pretending to forget the scars and the knife under his mattress.

The inside of the cabin had been moss green and mustard. He missed the first week of school up in the cabin, with nothing to do but let his legs carry him as far away as they could before turning around and trudging back. His aunt had sat outside the horse stable turned garage with the door cracked, witling small caricatures of bears.

Over dinner she would take stuttering words and a terrifying glint in her eyes to press into him stories. It started with Mother Goose and her orphan collection and ended with the Trickster –Coyote- and how his "harmless" pranks sometimes leant to more sinister things for those involved. In the middle had been the Interlopers- a hound man and a fox girl who had wanted to be together; they were each other's true love. At the end of the story, the fox family had used the roughness of a barky tree to violently skin the hound man whose howls had echoed in the canyon unanswered as his family huddled around their matron and watched her cube the fox girl's heart and fry it in a skillet.

Now running through the same mountains so many years later Nick was reminded of that winter vacation. His breath fogged, he could feel the moisture cling to his dry, cold face. He would keep telling himself not much farther, not much longer, it's almost over until it was.

Leaning against an oak tree, he breathed deep and allowed himself a moment to feel sorrow. He really had thought this had been done, over, completed. He spat into the snow, his stomach turning queasy from swallowing too much blood. The red in the snow brought him back to that winter vacation.

He had fallen in a gulley, granite rock too steep on one side for him to climb and the other side too muddy and covered in wild berry vines to safely climb. It had taken him hours to find his way out and back to the cabin. When he had the snow in front of the garage had been splashed in something black, it didn't melt like Nick knew snow did when covered in water. It seemed frozen and porous like the lava rocks his science teacher had showed them earlier that year. There had been dabs of red leading back to the cabin's back door.

Nick shakes himself from the memory, suddenly terrified to remember any farther and takes off again. Just a little more, he tells himself, just a little farther, he was so close.

It still hit him sometimes. He'd be cleaning the dishes or standing inside his door going through his mail and it would hit him like a prickling all over: a warm flush of guilt followed by the prickling sensation of grief. It always felt like this, with his whole body tense and hot- shame and guilt and the most horribly happy whisper in the back of his head reminding him that he will never have to deal with him again. Then the grief sets in like he's standing naked in the middle of a parking lot, his toes curled into the gritty slush below with his head tipped back, neck straining almost painfully with little starbursts of affection, love, sadness, and pain landing on his body and melting like quiet little snowflakes in the night. It seemed so peaceful and that was always the problem because it was. Grief was peaceful, nice in a near-cripplingly depressed way. He enjoyed the silence of an empty house and an eventless life. It was peaceful- tranquil with the only excitement being if he could finish an order on time.

When the silence was so loud it overwhelmed him, Monroe would walk into the kitchen and lean against the wall, bury his face in the soft leather and move his head lightly. He'd listen to the scrape of his beard against the jacket and dig his fingers into it as if it were on the man it belonged to. It felt petty and right and a little more than melodramatic to want more than anything to be held in the arms of a man whom the news reported had been fished out of the Willamette.

Monroe loved the peace and quiet, it was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Purgatory on Earth.

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><p><strong>If you go to my profile page you will find the sequel up already under the title The Spaces In Between. Don't get your hopes up, though. The first chapter is just this prologue above. Posting will continue on schedule with the sequel. <strong>


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